Authors: Tina Gabrielle
Face ruddy and eyes wide behind round spectacles, Edward Cameron rushed to Isabel’s side and clasped her upper arms.
“Isabel, we have been fraught with worry. The entire household has been looking for you.”
Isabel looked at her father in surprise and said the first thing that came to mind. “How did you find me?”
Edward frowned. “Lord Walling arrived for you this afternoon, and when you were nowhere to be found, we started to worry. Mr. Dante Black”—her father jerked his head to the door—“came to the house and informed us that you were at the estate sale of the late Lord Westley, and that you needed my aid.”
Isabel looked behind her father to see that Dante had entered the room to stand beside Lord and Lady Yarmouth.
Marcus Hawksley was nowhere in sight.
“What would possess you to come here, Isabel?” Edward asked.
“I, ah—”
Dante Black stepped forward. “Perhaps if everyone will be seated, I will attempt to explain matters.”
Isabel’s heart hammered as the occupants in the parlor followed Dante’s directions. The Yarmouths took the only settee in the room, and everyone else chose chairs.
Isabel glanced at the Yarmouths. Lord Yarmouth was quite ordinary looking, a middle-aged man of average height with a receding hairline. Lady Yarmouth, the illegitimate daughter of the fourth Duke of Queensbury, was rotund with an ample bosom and shrewd brown eyes. After receiving a sizable inheritance from the deceased duke, she spent most of her time in Paris, but was currently visiting England. Isabel was well aware that Lady Yarmouth was a close acquaintance of Charlotte’s mother and a vicious gossipmonger. Anything that was said today would be speedily spread to all the female members of the ton by sunset.
Dante spoke first. “I’ve summoned you here today because we all have one thing in common. The missing Gainsborough painting.”
“Whatever are you speaking about?” Isabel’s father asked.
“The Thomas Gainsborough painting is missing?” Lord Yarmouth sat forward, an intense look replacing his previously drab expression.
Dante held up a hand. “The painting was scheduled to be auctioned off early this afternoon. When I sent my man to bring the painting to this parlor, he was attacked and the painting stolen.”
“Attacked?” Isabel cried out. Dante had previously failed to mention an attack. “Is your man dead?”
“No,” Dante said. “He sustained a nasty knock on the head, but he will survive. But as for the painting, it is worth a small fortune and is missing. The only man that had expressed interest in the painting, other than Lord Yarmouth on behalf of the Prince Regent, was Mr. Marcus Hawksley.”
“Marcus Hawksley?” Lord Walling spoke up, the nostrils in his bulbous nose flaring in his florid face.
“Yes.” Dante nodded. “As I was saying, Mr. Hawksley was the only other person that had viewed the work”—Dante stopped to look at Isabel—“or so I had believed. When I found Mr. Hawksley to question him, Lady Isabel came to his defense and said that he could not have taken the painting. Isn’t that correct, Lady Isabel?”
“Isabel?” her father asked, a look of confusion on his face.
All eyes turned to her, and she felt light-headed.
Here is the moment of my ruin,
she thought.
The price I have to pay for my freedom.
Her prior misgivings increased a hundredfold. Her breathing became ragged; her blood rushed through her ears like an avalanche.
Save yourself!
Her inner voice cried out.
She looked at Dante Black, and was taken aback by the cold, calculating glint on his pinched face. She could almost hear his sinister thoughts:
This is what I told you would happen if you defended Marcus Hawksley, but there’s still time to change your story.
Perhaps she should seize the opportunity Dante offered. Cry confusion. Female hysterics. Loss of memory. Claim she had attended the auction to view quality watercolors. Knowing her interest in the arts,
that
was a story her father would believe. After all, there was even more at stake than a stolen painting; a man had been assaulted.
She glanced again at Dante, and her blood chilled at the victorious gleam in his eye. A thought struck her, and she froze.
What about Marcus?
He needed her as an alibi. For whatever reason, Dante wanted to prove Marcus guilty for crimes that she knew for a fact he did not commit.
Could she abandon an innocent man? A good man?
And Marcus was a good man, she was certain, despite the “black cloud,” as he had called it, which hovered over his head. He had refused her blatant offer when she was certain most men would not have. Others would have taken her virtue without a second thought, knowing that society would smear the woman’s reputation all the while praising the man for his sexual prowess.
But not Marcus. He had thought of her father, had even said she deserved better than him. No, she had to stay. She couldn’t throw an innocent man to a bloodthirsty wolf like Dante Black.
She looked her father straight in the eye. “I’m sorry for disappointing you, Father. But Mr. Hawksley didn’t steal the painting or attack Dante’s man.”
Edward stiffened. “Isabel?”
“Mr. Hawksley was with me, you see. We were…together the entire time.”
Isabel heard Lady Yarmouth’s quick intake of breath followed by Lord Walling’s low curse.
“I see.” Edward stood, his expression tight with strain. “And just where might I find Mr. Hawksley?”
In the library of the Westley mansion, Marcus clenched his fists in futile frustration as the two guards eyed him warily. Both had pulled out pistols from their coat pockets and aimed them at his chest as soon as the library door was secured.
Marcus’s jaw hardened. Dante Black knew his business. If the crooked auctioneer had left Marcus alone with one armed guard, it would have been a hell of a fight. But with two? And more critically, with Isabel Cameron somewhere in this house alone, Marcus couldn’t risk starting a battle.
An image of Isabel flashed through his mind as he had last seen her. Long, sable hair, the clearest blue eyes he had ever looked into, and the body of a temptress robed in virginal white. With the feel of all that soft, womanly flesh pressed against him, he had come dangerously close to taking what she had eagerly offered.
If it wasn’t for Dante’s untimely interruption…
Marcus strode to a window behind a dusty oak desk, all the while aware of the guard’s eyes on his every move. Leaning on the window sill, Marcus surveyed the gardens below.
None of this made any sense. Dante Black wanted to blame the theft of the Gainsborough work as well as the assault of one of his men on him. But why?
Marcus knew little of the auctioneer. Dante had worked for the prestigious Bonham’s Auction House. Bonham’s opened its doors in 1793, twenty-one years ago. Thomas Dodd, a well-known print dealer, and Walter Bonham, a book specialist, founded the firm, and its reputation was unsullied. Dante Black had been the head auctioneer at Bonham’s until it was rumored that he had a falling out with Thomas Dodd himself. Since then, Dante had resorted to estate sales of deceased wealthy art patrons. Marcus had attended numerous auctions conducted by Dante over the past year in his quest for quality artwork.
So why would Dante Black want so desperately to accuse Marcus?
They had never exchanged a cross word. To the contrary, Dante had made a lucrative profit from the art Marcus had acquired from him.
Dante’s current hostile behavior was illogical. Unless he was working for someone else, someone who despised Marcus, a rival who wanted him destroyed…
A low knock sounded on the door. One of the guards pocketed his pistol and cracked open the door. He spoke in a low voice as he motioned behind his back for the other guard to put away his pistol.
The door was opened wide, and Edward Cameron, the Earl of Malvern, entered the library.
To Marcus’s surprise, the guards slipped out and closed the door behind them.
“Lord Malvern,” Marcus greeted Isabel’s father, wary of the older man’s stiff posture.
Edward strode forward, his corpulent features twisted in anger. “Well, Mr. Hawksley. You look as if you were expecting me.”
“To be truthful, I was, just not this soon.”
“Your arrogance knows no bounds. My daughter is downstairs as we speak having her reputation torn to shreds and her future destroyed—all in your defense. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Lord Malvern, nothing happened between Lady Isabel and myself. On my honor—”
“Your honor!” Edward roared. “From what I understand, Mr. Hawksley, you haven’t had honor in over ten years. I showed you nothing but kindness and respect those many years ago. I was aware of your roguish behavior, but I had foolishly believed you would outgrow it. Instead, you lost whatever morals you had possessed when you entered trade and have reduced yourself to ruining the lives of innocent young women.”
“I haven’t ruined anything. We were never together.”
“Do you confess to stealing the painting then?” Edward asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“Then you admit to being alone with Isabel at the time of the theft?”
“Yes, but nothing transpired between us.”
Edward hesitated, and a brief look of uncertainty flashed across his face, but as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished. “Whether I believe you or not, Mr. Hawksley, it’s too late. Isabel stood in the parlor just moments ago and confessed to being caught in a highly compromising position with you in the presence of both Lord and Lady Yarmouth and Lord Walling. Needless to say, Lord Walling will not have Isabel now at any price.”
“Then Walling is a fool.”
Edward looked startled, and then said through gritted teeth, “It doesn’t matter. There is no longer an option. You must marry at once.”
Marcus felt an imaginary noose cinch around his neck. “I was wondering when the subject would arise.” He reached up and loosened his tightly knotted cravat with a forefinger. It felt as if the fabric was closing off his air supply.
“Now that you have your alibi, will you do right by her?”
Ah, and there is the rub,
Marcus thought.
Isabel had saved him with her galloping tongue and her crazy scheming. No matter how much he did not want to be forced into marriage, he needed an alibi. He was all too aware that he would have been the primary suspect for the theft of the Gainsborough painting if it were not for Isabel’s testimony. Dante had gone to great pains to ensure it. Marcus was grudgingly grateful that Isabel had followed through with her mad plan and told all that they were together during the critical time in question.
But at the same time, he was irked that she had lied about them having a salacious affair.
The hard truth was it would have mattered naught in the eyes of society. She was an unmarried woman caught alone with a bachelor of dreadful character in a room with enough erotic art to tempt a bishop. She was ruined either way. The least he could do in return was salvage her tattered reputation, even though marriage to him was not nearly as desirable, in her father’s eyes, as a union with the titled Lord Walling.
“I’ll agree to whatever terms you set forth,” Marcus said dryly.
“Before I tell Isabel,” Edward said, “I wanted to confront you first—man to man. It’s no secret that I had hoped for Lord Walling as a match for my daughter. He is a titled widower from an established family line. But since that is no longer possible, I hope to save her from the cruelties of society.”
Marcus thought of Isabel’s reaction to the news. Life was ironic indeed. By conniving to get herself out of one unwanted marriage, she had unwittingly trapped herself into another.
It was dark outside by the time Isabel and her father returned home from the Westley mansion. Her head throbbed, and her back ached between her shoulder blades. Her father hadn’t spoken a word in the carriage the entire journey home. He had stared out the window in stony silence, his whole demeanor severe and angry. She had bitten her lip to stop from asking what had transpired between him and Marcus Hawksley.
By the time the carriage pulled up to their town house on Park Lane, a cold drizzle fell, washing out the May evening in a dreary blur that matched her mood. Isabel trudged behind her father up the front steps and entered the marble vestibule.
The delicious aroma of roast lamb wafted to her, and her stomach growled. She realized she had missed not only luncheon, but dinner as well. She wanted nothing more than to change out of the low-cut silk gown, have her maid deliver a dinner tray to her room, and seek the solace of her watercolors.
The butler took her cloak, and she turned to the winding staircase. Hand clutching the banister, she was halfway up the stairs when she glanced down.
Her father stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at her, and as their eyes met, a flash of fury crossed his face. Several heartbeats later, he pivoted on his heel and disappeared, his footsteps echoing down the marble hall like a general leading his troops into war.
She bit her lip and rushed to her room. Shutting the door, she threw her reticule on the four-poster. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the corner of the bedchamber, beneath a window, where an easel with a half-completed landscape beckoned. Beside the painting was a small table which held a jar crammed with brushes, several water bowls, and a dozen tiny, hard cakes of soluble watercolor.
Not permitted a room in the house for a designated studio, she had made use of the corner of her bedroom. Since she was the daughter of an earl, her father had initially paid for basic art lessons to contribute to a well-rounded education befitting a debutante of her station. But when she had expressed an interest in furthering her studies, he had adamantly refused, stating that “a young woman should focus her energies on Almack’s marriage mart.”
She strode to the easel, picked up a cake of pale blue watercolor, dipped it in water, and rubbed it on an oyster shell with her Asiatic martin brush. The landscape was of a section of Hyde Park she most enjoyed, showing the Serpentine River at springtime. She had been putting the finishing touches on the sky this morning, but this time, with each stroke of her brush, instead of finding a familiar sense of inner calm, her nerves remained tense and brittle. Her brush strokes were jerky rather than flowing, and the clouds formed a distorted shape on the paper.
Dear Lord, not even painting could soothe her anxiety tonight. A soft knock on the door stopped her in midstroke.
“Yes.”
The door opened and her maid, Kate, entered. A plain-looking woman, Kate had thin brown hair, brown eyes, and a wagging tongue. Her inquisitive nature was the last thing Isabel desired tonight.
“Your father is asking for you, Lady Isabel.”
“Where?”
“In his library.”
Not the library!
she thought. She had never seen him as furious as she had tonight, and she dreaded the confrontation to come.
She reassured herself that all would work out as planned. Walling would never have her now. What suitable man in England would? No doubt Lady Yarmouth was already flapping her overzealous lips to every influential society matron within a ten-mile radius of London. Isabel would be free to leave for Paris.
She should be happy, thrilled, relieved—yet all she felt was an unexpected void.
Her thoughts wandered to Marcus Hawksley. She experienced a strange curiosity—an unfamiliar pang of longing. What would become of him? What was he doing now? And most surprisingly, what did he think of her? She was disturbed to realize that she cared about his opinion. He must think her a conniving jade, a spoiled tart.
An odd twinge of disappointment settled in her stomach. She’d likely never see him again. He was not a regular attendee of ton functions, and she would no longer be one after tonight. She would be in Paris, where scandalous behavior was prized rather than ostracized.
Still, questions raced through her mind like quicksilver. Why would Dante Black seek so urgently to blame Marcus Hawksley for the art theft? Would Marcus attempt to learn the identity of the true thief? But would a working stockbroker be able to afford a private investigator? From what everyone had said, Marcus’s funds were limited.
She shook her head at her thoughts. She must think about the future,
her future
. Even though she had used Marcus, she had helped him by giving him an alibi.
She shouldn’t feel guilty.
With firm resolve, Isabel raised her chin. “If I must meet my father, then please help me change, Kate.” She wanted to get past her father’s haranguing speech and plan for tomorrow.
She chose a modest gown of gray muslin, with a high collar and long sleeves. She opened her bedroom door and again the aroma of lamb and roasted vegetables from the dining room made her mouth water. If her watercolors could not ease her tension, then perhaps food would. She prayed the lecture wouldn’t take long.
Straightening her spine, she hurried down the hall and entered the library.
Her father was sitting behind his massive desk. At her entrance, he looked up and adjusted his spectacles on his nose.
“Sit, Isabel.”
She took a chair by the fire and folded her hands in her lap. A movement from the corner of the room drew her attention, and she started.
Marcus Hawksley stood rigid, his obsidian eyes boring into her. He strode forward, into the firelight, and her breath caught. He dominated the room with his attitude of self-command and rugged masculinity. There was a firm resolve in him, a hardness in his features that made him look like a predator studying his prey, and she was completely alarmed by his presence.
What was he doing in her father’s library?
“Good evening, Lady Isabel.” He chose a chair beside hers and crossed his long legs in front of him.
“Good evening, Mr. Hawksley.” She had trouble meeting his gaze, and she ended up studying her hands.
“Well, Isabel,” her father said. “Is there anything you want to say?”
She looked up, suddenly flooded with a sense of shame. “I’m sorry for any trouble I caused you, Mr. Hawksley. I can only hope that I helped you with my testimony.” She turned to her father. “I’ll pack my bags first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Your bags? For what?” Edward asked.
“For Auntie Lil’s, of course.”
“Auntie Lil’s? You think I would allow you to go there?” His expression was incredulous.
“Why not? Lord Walling won’t have me now.”
A muscle twitched near her father’s right eye. He appeared even more furious than when she had sat beside him in the carriage on the journey home.
“I think I understand,” Edward said, his lips a thin line. “Mr. Hawksley was telling the truth, wasn’t he? Your impetuous nature has finally ruined you. You are recklessly impulsive and never think things through. No doubt dreams of Paris, Auntie Lil, and male models were flashing through your mind when you plotted this catastrophe. As my eldest child, I’ve indulged you, Isabel. I’ve let you twist me about your finger, but no longer. I’ll not speak around the subject. You and Mr. Hawksley must marry.”
“Marry!” She felt the blood drain from her face.
Edward turned his attention to Marcus. “I’m uncertain what part you played in all of this, Mr. Hawksley. Whether you were a willing participant in my daughter’s foolish plan or not, I still hold you partly responsible. You are older and worldlier than Isabel, and I would expect a
gentleman
to exhibit more restraint than to be found alone with an innocent woman in a room surrounded by inflammatory artifacts. Notwithstanding my beliefs, however, I do hope you will follow through on your word and do the honorable thing.”
“I gave my word, Lord Malvern. And despite what you said earlier, I’m good for it.”
“Isabel has a dowry, and although I feel it is my right under the circumstances, I’ll not withhold it.”
“There’s no need. I’ll not take a shilling,” Marcus said, his voice firm.
Isabel came to her senses and sprang to her feet. “Do not speak as if I were not present. I will not marry Mr. Hawksley, or anyone for that matter.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed. “You have no choice in the matter, Isabel. You sealed your fate when you failed to consider the full consequences of your foolish actions. Thank goodness you and Lord Walling were not yet engaged. A scandal will result, no doubt, when Lady Yarmouth blabs to her influential friends. But after you and Mr. Hawksley are married, the scandal will blow over and will become lessened over time. Had you been engaged to Walling, the outcome would have been too horrendous to fathom. The twins, Amber and Anthony, would never have been accepted by society, and their futures would have been tainted by your actions.”
“I still refuse.” She looked to Marcus, her eyes pleading. “You can stop this, please, before it goes any further.”
“I’m afraid it’s past my doing. I have my sense of honor.”
“Honor!” Her voice was shrill to her own ears. “This is a lifetime we’re speaking of.”
“No doubt.”
“Then speak up!”
“Your father is right. It’s the only reasonable course of action.”
She scowled at him, speechless.
Edward rose from behind his desk. “Perhaps Mr. Hawksley can convince you better than I, Isabel. I’ll leave you in private for a few minutes to talk things through.” He left the library without a backward glance.
As soon as the door closed, Marcus stood and went to the liquor cabinet. He pulled out two glasses and a bottle of her father’s favorite port. Pouring two fingers’ worth in both glasses, he picked up one, downed the glass, refilled it, and then turned to her.
“A celebratory toast, Lady Isabel?” he said, holding out the second glass of amber-colored liquor. “I do believe the occasion warrants one. It’s not every day I
propose
marriage to a young, titled lady.”
Isabel eyed him warily. His arm rested on the back of an armchair, his long, muscular frame, leaning to the side in an insolent manner. Broad shoulders strained against his tailored navy jacket—shoulders that she knew from firsthand experience were not padded like those of other men of her acquaintance. She vividly recalled the powerful muscles in his arms as he had held her and she had eagerly waited for his lips to touch hers…
Except they never did…
She frowned. Something about his resigned acceptance of her father’s demands disturbed her. He was not the type of man to easily relinquish control. To the contrary, he was a man who was used to following his own rules, not the dictates of society.
Hadn’t he left behind the lazy world of privilege to become a stockbroker in the London Stock Exchange?
A sudden realization dawned upon her. “You feel guilty, don’t you?”
Dark eyes narrowed, and he lowered the offered glass. “What?”
She forced her lips to part in a curved, stiff smile. “You feel a crushing sense of guilt because without my admission as to our ‘scandalous relationship,’ you would not have had an alibi for the Gainsborough theft. You feel as if you owe me. And your twisted sense of honor is telling you that the only way to repay me is to marry me and salvage my reputation, despite my firm and repeated objections.”
Marcus sauntered forward, hand clutching the glass, powerful body coiled. “You have me all figured out, don’t you?”
She stood and lifted her chin a notch. “Am I correct, Mr. Hawksley?”
“It’s Marcus.”
“Don’t evade my question. Am I correct?”
“Yes, I suppose you’re correct,” he ground out. “Contrary to what the gossips whisper about me behind my back, I do have a strong moral code…a sense of honor. Just so you understand, I do not condone the lies you told at the Westley mansion. I detest being manipulated in business or in personal matters. What you did was selfish and immature, and yet if you had not been where you were, if you had not plotted this ‘catastrophe,’ as your father called it, I would be at Bow Street as we speak being questioned by an underpaid and overly zealous constable. So, yes, Lady Isabel, I do feel guilty and somewhat responsible for your predicament. I am fully aware that by marrying the younger son of an earl and a working stockbroker to boot, you are stepping down in the eyes of society, but it will spare you from complete scandal. It is the least I can do for your father and your family since you do not seem overly concerned for them.”
Her mind fluttered away in anxiety at his determination to follow through with her father’s marital notions. “But I have plans, and marriage to you is not one of them.”
“I had plans as well, and although marriage was not in my imminent future, a relationship was.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “There’s another woman? Charlotte had assured me you were a sworn bachelor, and she knows everything.”
A mocking smile invaded his stare. “Whoever Charlotte is, she does not know everything.”
She shook her head regretfully. “I apologize. I never intended to cause trouble between a love match.” She felt a strange twinge of foreign emotion. Jealousy that Marcus Hawksley had a lover?
Ridiculous!
she mused.
You hardly know him.
He stepped forward and touched her hand. His fingers, warm and strong on her sensitive skin, sent a tingle of awareness up her arm.
She met his gaze, and the intense look in his eyes startled her.
“What’s done is done,” he said. “I’ll not change my mind. Your plans of Paris and Auntie Lil will have to be delayed.”
“Yes,” she murmured, her mind spinning. “Delayed…perhaps not all is lost.” She reached out to take the glass of port from him. “Perhaps we can agree to postpone our plans and not dismiss them forever. I’d drink a toast to that.”
“What are you scheming?”
“A marriage of convenience, Mr. Hawksley. A
temporary
marriage of convenience.”